


Butt

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Crack, Crossdressing, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2006 LJ Mills and Boon B7 ficathon where we chose actual romance novel synopsis as the basis for the fic.</p><p>This story was based on a Mills and Boon synopsis of a novel entitled, "TARGET"<br/>Here's the adapted synopsis:<br/><i>He’s got 24 hours!</i><br/>Someone was trying to assassinate the president of the Federation, and only computer intelligence technician Kerr Avon had the ability to stop them – if he could convince the authorities he wasn’t a crackpot. It didn’t help that his intel came from a source so secret even he didn’t know who it was.<br/> <br/><i>With only twenty-four hours to stop the attack, he had to figure out who was masterminding the plot and where they planned to strike. First, he had to get the charismatic young president on his side. And then he’d give the enemy a new target – himself! </i></p><p>(It's actually hardly any nookie at all, but I chose to over-rate rather than under-rate.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butt

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did try for a romance novel feeling, but it got plotty, too. These things happen to me. 'Butt' is also a synonym for 'Target', see what I did there? :^)
> 
> For purposes of this story I'm using [ a 24 hour clock.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/24-hour_clock)

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Kerr Avon impatiently brushed back his hair once more. His supervisor, back when he worked for Federation banking, had often complained about his non-regulation, below shoulder-length, haircut, even going so far as to order him to wear a hairnet. Avon hadn't been able to say that his current boyfriend loved his hair so he settled for telling the supervisor it was none of his business. After all, computers were no longer delicate creatures that died if a speck of dust got into their circuitry. And his supervisor was an anal-retentive prick. In retrospect, he might have left off the last, because while the entire office laughed, the entire office didn't pay his bills. 

So he lost that job. And what was worse, when he told the story to Tynus, the man had the nerve to find the hairnet idea appealing, and _he_ tried to order Kerr to do it.

Avon hated orders. And he hated people calling him by his first name. Just because he enjoyed having someone fuck him legless didn't make him his bitch. That had been quite a row, winding up with troopers hauling Avon off on a domestic disturbance charge after he went for his boyfriend with a conveniently heated hair-curler.

While awaiting the bail bondsman, Avon deflected the importunities of several men in the holding cell who had got quite the wrong idea from his eyeliner and lip-gloss. He wasn't in a good mood, so he indulged himself with a few kicks in crotches (learned from a Parisian-dome dockworker boyfriend), a few karate chops (learned from a boyfriend who'd been a martial arts' teacher) and a modified 'Spock-pinch' (learned from a boyfriend who was a member of the ancient underground Trekkie sect) and was in a much more relaxed frame of mind when a dome-trooper, who'd watched the fracas with amusement, said as a joke that Avon could try out for their undercover squad.

Now, that had been an interesting two years; he'd even had a fling with a dyke on the undercover squad, Bartholomew, initially misled by her code-name into thinking she was a man. The day came, though, when a captain tried to give him an order he didn't care for at all. Maybe if Dev Tarrant had bathed regularly... well, while Avon couldn't stay with the dome-troopers, neither could Dev put the honest details of the incident down in the records, so when Avon had applied to the Feds, his record was clean as far as they were concerned. The Anti-Servalan backlash that had elected a gay president made Avon quite appealing to them. 

Avon's skill with computers, and unfortunate habit of rubbing people the wrong way, had led them to putting him here, in the intelligence collating room, working alone with a terminal most of the time. There were advantages to that. No one knew that he'd put a lot of his pet theories about hardware into actual use down here in the sub-sub-sub basement of Londondome Federation headquarters, using captured equipment left over from criminal cases. They certainly didn't know he'd been backdooring his way into computers all over the universe. Avon liked backdoors. He liked knowing secrets, even if he never intended to use them. Knowledge was power. 

Avon scanned his 'old reliable' information feeds and sent the data to the report-writing subprogram he'd created soon after getting this job. Now, what to do for the rest of his shift? Avon put his glossy black boots up on the console, and thought. He could go to an on-line chat room and pretend to be a fourteen-year-old boy just discovering his sexuality, and troll for predators. Occasionally he tossed Bartolomew a nice juicy paedophile, for old time's sake; she'd been very creative with a dildo. If it wasn't for her ambition and appalling dress sense, he might have stayed with her.

Or he could try something new. He'd contacted an A.I. last shift that had potential. It had an abrasive personality, and he suspected delusions of grandeur, but it had grudgingly allowed him access to a read-only display of its central programming that assured Avon the thing couldn't lie to direct questioning. "All right, you little devil, are you on-line?" Avon set up the link and grinned as information flowed into his terminal. It must be lonely; it was showing off. As he started typing a response, the speakers on the computer crackled, and then produced a voice.

It sounded like an irascible old man. Perfect for this A.I.'s 'personality'. "I am quite capable of accepting voice input, provided you give concise and logical directives."

"Oh, that's good," Avon said, grinning. The computer was begging for a master. "What is your designation and main purpose, computer?"

"I am no mere computer!" The thing actually sounded insulted. "I am Orac! My designer was Ensor! I am the acme of his career!"

"You haven't answered my concise and logical question, Orac."

"I can access any computer equipped with a tarriel cell and obtain information from it."

"So you're a galactic search engine." That might be useful, if Avon could think of the right questions to ask.

Orac spluttered indignantly. "I am capable of independent thought and conducting my own research!"

"All right, then, a library console with adaptive heuristics." Avon was quite enjoying teasing the machine.

"NO!" Orac was incoherent with rage for several seconds. Finally it said, "I can analyze data and predict the future."

"So can I," Avon said, with a laugh. "I am going to leave here at shift end and go home." Probably after a visit to the local leather bar, but Avon didn't see the need to explain that to a machine.

"Very well, you require proof." Orac was silent for several seconds. "Watch your monitor."

Avon turned to look at the monitor. He recognized the slim hand of the Galacti-girl as she pressed the button revolving the drum of glittering crystals. The crystals drifted to the bottom with the first seven merging into a pattern. "Tonight's winner," Orac announced. "To be claimed by Melvin Purvis of ..." 

Avon stared at the monitor, memorizing the pattern and not listening to Orac. "Worth a try," he said to himself, and picked up a vis-phone to order a ticket with that pattern. The phone went dead.

"I cannot allow you to interfere with my prediction. Melvin Purvis holds the only winning ticket." Orac chuckled nastily.

"Orac, I order you to..." The screen went blank. Several hours later, after Avon had determined to his satisfaction that the plastic bastard had total control over any communications link Avon could access even after he left the building without authorization and hacked into the lines, the monitor came back to life. Avon scowled and watched a news clip showing a beaming Melvin Purvis telling the universe that he was going to take his wife and numerous offspring to Diznay on the proceeds. Avon growled, "I hope you're all eaten by giant rodents."

"That is exceedingly unlikely, given the non-hostile nature of the indigenous animal life on that planet," Orac told him smugly. "Do you require any further demonstrations of my ability?"

"Only if you show me something to my benefit," Avon said. "Otherwise, I’m afraid our budding relationship is ended before it started."

"I am too useful to ignore!"

"That's debatable." Avon reached to cut the link.

"Wait! My creator is dead, I am alone on an uninhabited asteroid, you cannot abandon me, purposeless, with no one with whom to argue!"

"Watch me." Avon grinned.

"Very well. I am determining what information would most benefit you, according to your definition of 'benefit'."

Avon waited while the computer made unnecessary 'thinking' noises. "Well, Orac?"

" 'Well' is not a question!" Orac added hastily, "I have found information that precisely meets your requirements. You, and only you, may foil an attack upon the President of the Federation."

Avon put his boots on the floor and sat up straight. "Details, Orac! Give me the details."

"An extremist group plans to assassinate the President at 15 hundred hours tomorrow."

"What group? Where will they attack him? What is the method of attack?" The computer remained silent. "Come on, Orac, those are 'concise and logical' questions!"

"Indeed, they are. However, providing you the answers would not be to your benefit, as you specified." Orac sounded smug. "Ending transmission." The screen went blank, and Avon was unable to force the computer to respond.

"Damn." Avon rang his supervisor on his hot line comm, wiping the dust off it with his sleeve. "Tarrant, I've just learned the President's life is in danger!"

"What? Who is this?" Tarrant's blue eyes looked uncommonly blank, but then, he was a political appointee, chosen for his decorative value on vids, and his prolific family's influence.

"Kerr Avon, down in Information Collection and Collation."

Avon heard whispering in the background, as Tarrant's mousy secretary, Deva, leaned in to tell him, "It's the basement fairy, sir."

"Oh, yes, Kerr, of course." Tarrant smiled in his politically correct toothy way.

Avon leaned towards the vid-pickup, eyes intense. "I've downloaded information about a plot to assassinate the President at 1500 hours tomorrow!" 

Tarrant's mouth dropped. "You must be joking."

"No. I'm not." Avon hit the button for playback of the audio recording of the last few minutes of his conversation with Orac.

Orac's voice was loud and clear. "I have found information that precisely meets your requirements. The Gay Cavalier, tonight at eight. Wear a pink handkerchief in your back pocket. Shrinker only accepts Mastercred. Flogging is fifty credits extra. Bring your own restraints."

Avon went even paler than his usual cathode-ray tan as he snapped off the transmission. "That wasn't the information."

"I'd call that too much information, actually." Tarrant looked annoyed, then smiled sympathetically. "It gets lonely down in the basement, doesn't it? Perhaps you'd best take a leave of absence, until you get off... ah... until you take your mind off things."

"Tarrant, I swear to you, there's a plot against the President! Orac told me!"

"What, have you got a fortune-telling machine down there?" Tarrant's irritation returned. "Quit playing about, Kerr." 

"I'm deadly serious, Tarrant! Orac is a sophisticated computer, able to access information from any computer, analyze the data and predict the future!"

"And you built it yourself, I suppose." Tarrant's patronizing smile infuriated Avon.

"No! Orac was created by Ensor!"

"Ensor? Ensor, do we know any..." Tarrant turned to Deva, who whispered in his ear. Tarrant's annoyance grew visibly. "Look here, Kerr, enough is enough, no one's heard of this Ensor for more than twenty years. I really don't appreciate you taking recreational drugs whilst on duty, and I particularly don't appreciate you wasting _my_ time with your hallucinations. Take the rest of the week off. That's an order!"

Avon was about to tell the snippy bastard where he could stick his orders when the screen went blank. He growled and dusted off his employee manual looking for Tarrant's superior.

"Egrorian, here. What is it?" The fat man behind the desk dominated by an in-progress game of 3-D chess looked up at Avon. His skinny, blonde, college-boy assistant frowned at Avon, then moved a piece when Egrorian wasn't looking.

"I am in receipt of information concerning a plot against the president."

Egrorian blinked. "Are you in the domestic intelligence bureau? I don't recognize you." His pudgy hand reached out and slapped the assistant away from the chess board. "Stop cheating, Pinder, you do it badly."

Pinder sat down and sulked.

"My name is Avon. Kerr Avon. I'm Intelligence Collating."

"One of the computer jockeys, eh? You should be reporting to oh, what's the boy's name... Tarrant, that's him." Egrorian leaned forward as if to cut Avon off.

"There isn't time, the threat is imminent! The president could die tomorrow if we don't act!"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow, that's impossible. I would have heard before now. Situations just don't develop in a vacuum, Kerr. I'll just have a word with Tarrant. You must have the date wrong. Possibly your computer's clock battery is worn down." He leaned to one side to look at another communications screen.

"No! Egrorian!"

The fat man ignored Avon and began talking to the other screen, "Yes, Tarrant, your lad Kerr has just been relating some intel not along the proper lines of communication." Egrorian paused, apparently listening, and then frowned. "Very well, take care of it, then." Egrorian turned back to Avon. "I understand, I really do, dear boy, but this isn't the way to handle your frustrations." Egrorian smiled suddenly and licked his lips. "The Gay Cavalier? Yes, I'll remember that."

The screen went blank.

***

Avon glared back at Federation Headquarters. The urge to say 'you fools, you'll regret this' was strong, but the no-neck types who had unceremoniously escorted him out of the building along with a memo from Tarrant directing him to take a week's 'sick' leave were even stronger. Avon glanced at his wrist chron : 15:30. Less than a day to save the president and collect whatever reward a grateful world would bestow on him. Avon began walking towards the public transit stop. Very likely the 'reward' would be for him to be blamed for the attack in the first place. Maybe he should just go to the leather bar, pick up a nice bit of rough, and act shocked by the news the next day.

Avon felt a slight twinge of... well, not remorse, but a sense of waste. The President was damn handsome - broad-shouldered, curly-haired, and with an incredibly delectable throat. Pity to let that much prime beef get blown to bits, or shot to ribbons, or knifed, or... Avon reined in his imagination and stopped to wait for the electronic pedestrian signal to tell him to cross. He'd tried. Not his fault at all.

The signal lit up. "Don't you want to be rich?"

Avon blinked. Adverts on electronic zebra crossings? That was new.

The sign blinked back at him and displayed, "Delta 76." It blinked again and then became a prosaic, "Walk."

Avon crossed the street, mind only partly on his route. Orac was playing games with him. His respect for the computer rose slightly. 'Delta 76' was a terrorist group, claiming to seek equality for the downtrodden Deltas, but those in the know, such as Avon, realized that was merely a cover for the deposed Servalan's disgruntled underlings. There was a 'watch' on them, of course, but it was a perfunctory one, as The Powers That Be judged them basically harmless pamphleteers and producers of miss-spelt protest signs. But what if they weren't harmless? Avon quickened his step. He could link into his informational net from his entirely unauthorized set-up on his home computer.

***

Avon glanced at his wrist chron again, 16:45. He slouched, inconspicuously wearing a black leather trench coat with matching fedora, trousers, and plain black boots with only a two-inch heel, under the shade of a chestnut tree, while watching Delta 76 protesting the 'Polifercation of Newclear Weepons' in front of a post-office substation. Nobody was that bad a speller. At the back of the small crowd of men in plaid skirts and women in purple fake fur, Avon saw a fussy-looking businessman with a parcel under one arm, who looked at his watch, frowned and turned away from the crowd.

Something - there was something about that man. Avon blinked and let his photographic memory run snapshots until one snagged and caught, centering to overlay over the businessman. Of course! Pierre Wulfgang Muhammed O'Farrell! What was the internationally known assassin par excellence doing here? Fairly obvious he wasn't posting his income tax return. Avon casually followed, after 'shooting' the man with his Invisible Marker And Personal Affection Keeper, a gadget he'd devised one bored and jealous summer, when his then-boyfriend had been double-timing him with a blonde dog-walker. Imapak never failed.

Three blocks later, O'Farrell dumped his brown paper package in a wire waste basket. Avon wrestled with his conscience, and lost, which annoyed him mightily, and started to phone in an anonymous 'dangerous parcel' warning. It was stupid. It might give the game away. Even as he was locking in the nearest trooper station, a raggedly dressed man ambled over to the bin, and extracted the package.

Avon hesitated, frowned, then marked the bum, and followed him instead. He had a gut feeling... which probably meant he was wrong. He had such a low empathy score that he'd been advised to do the opposite of his instincts. But, on the other hand, did he _really_ want a confrontation with a master of assassination? Even if he overpowered the man, he would be unlikely to be able to extract the plan from him in time. 

The bum meandered on, stopping to browse other bins, and finally paused to rest on a park bench, laying the package beside him. An extremely clean-cut, handsome, young man, meticulously dressed and carrying a satchel of the type well-meaning missionaries use to tote their tracts about, sat next to the bum, and began gently urging him towards a more productive lifestyle. The bum cursed him inventively, scattered the offered literature over the package, and left.

The young man sighed, shook his head, and bent to gather up his papers. When he was done, the bench was empty.

Avon smiled. He tilted his fedora at a rakish angle and approached the young man. "Hello," he said, sitting on the bench, "I've seen you around the park before, haven't I?"

"No, I doubt that." The young man got to his feet. "Sorry, I'm late for a meeting."

"What? You don't have time to set my stumbling feet on the paths of righteousness, but you had time to accost a homeless man?" Avon said. "What sort of missionary are you?"

The young man pasted on a false smile, and sat down again. "You misunderstand, friend." He opened his satchel and dug out a brightly colored pamphlet. "That poor soul is in desperate need of salvation, he's an emergency case. I'm sure you can find the truth in here for yourself." 

Avon grinned and reached in past the pamphlets and grabbed at the brown parcel. "I'd rather find the truth in here." Before the man could stop him, Avon ripped it open, revealing the contents, a brass tube about two inches long. For a moment Avon thought it was some new type of ammunition, but then he recognized it. "Lipstick?" Puzzled, Avon reached for the lipstick, but the young man grabbed it and screamed, a particularly high-pitched and convincing sound of terror, at the same time ripping at the front of his trousers and throwing himself off the bench.

Avon stared in astonishment, frozen for several seconds. A large hand on his shoulder whirled him about. "Here, what's going on?" Avon looked up, and then up a little further, into the stern face of a blonde giant in dome-trooper blue. His bronze badge proclaimed him to be Officer Jarvik.

"Oh, Officer, thank you!" The young man held his ripped trousers together with one hand, and his other hand clutching his satchel of tracts with the other, a gleam of brass faintly visible between his fingers. "This man..." He blushed quite becomingly, Avon noted with suspicion. He hadn't thought anyone human could control autonomic reactions to that extent. "He... well, Officer Jarvik... I suppose he couldn't help himself, but..."

"I did not!" Avon protested. "He's not my type at all!" Jarvik scowled and shook Avon so that his teeth clattered.

"Come down to the station to press charges," Jarvik said to Avon's 'victim'. 

"Oh, I couldn't. What would my mother say? Please, officer, if you could just... keep him from following me home?"

Jarvik sighed. "That's not what a real man would do, but... all right." Jarvik pulled Avon's fedora down over his eyes, blindfolding him. "Hurry on home, and be careful in parks, after this! This is what comes of having a ponce for a President," Jarvik growled and shook Avon some more.

***

Before being released at 17:50 Avon suffered a lengthy lecture from Jarvik on how a 'real man' behaves which seemed to involve letting the sun shine on sweaty muscles, (apparently the man was a technophobe rather than a homophobe, which was just as annoying to Avon). Avon cursed himself for not having the forethought to mark the missionary. He'd lost the trail. The assassin and the bum would have nothing more to do with it, he was sure. Well, now, a piece of string has two ends. If he couldn't follow the plot to Blake, he'd have to follow Blake to the plot. 

Avon returned to his flat and looked up the President's official schedule. The man was an inveterate baby-kisser and soft touch for nearly any social cause in the book. With luck, Avon could gate-crash an event tonight and possibly at least get close enough to warn his official bodyguard that something was up. Even if they decided Avon was a lunatic, that extra edge to their vigilance might be enough to save the President.

Or it could back-fire and wind up with him accused of being involved in the plot if it succeeded. Was the possibility of a politician's gratitude worth the risk? Orac could make accurate predictions and it couldn't lie to a direct question, but ... Orac's definition of 'benefit' might not be the same as his own.

Avon sat down with his laptop in front of his vid-screen, and turned on the news. The president practically leaped off the screen at him, leaning over the podium to earnestly endorse some legislation, forthright eyes seeming to seek out the good in everyone. Avon sighed. The man was just too damn irresistible. Impractical, but somehow, the universe just wouldn't be the same without Roj Blake. Also, he did make life easier for gays, which was a definite plus in Avon's book. 

Ah! Blake was attending a dinner at the YMCA at 20:00. Avon had a membership there, mainly for scenic purposes and the use of their exercise machinery, often at the same time. He also had a little... leverage... over the man in charge. Five minutes later, Avon was assured an invitation to sit at the main table next to the guest speaker.

Time to rummage through the closet for something suitable to wear. Something subtle. Something refined.

***

Avon ate another bite of overcooked chicken casserole, and exclaimed softly as a drip landed on his silver studded, black leather tuxedo. The President chuckled, and the sound went directly to Avon's balls. "There's a secret to it," Blake said quietly. "Watch." He deftly spooned a bit of casserole, aimed it at his own mouth, and while talking to Avon, deposited it back on his plate.

Avon laughed. "I bow to your superior experience." He grinned at Blake, and caught an answering gleam in those deep, honey-gold eyes. He slid his thigh a little further over, to touch Blake's. "I bow very deeply, indeed."

Blake blinked, and then laughed, before moving his leg away- but in no haste, and not very far. He gazed at Avon closely. "Have we met before?"

"No, but you might have seen my file. I work in Information Collection and Collation. Kerr Avon." Avon grinned again. "They call me the basement fairy."

Blake's laugh was full and free. He threw his head back, exposing that gorgeous neck again. It was all Avon could do to resist going in for a bite- it looked far more tasty than casserole. Blake's laugh ebbed and he glanced at the security guard standing unobtrusively behind his chair. The young woman pulled her data-link off the harness attached to her leg, and rapidly worked it. After a few moments, she nodded, and handed Blake the link. He glanced at it and then at Avon.

"You were a Dome-trooper?"

Avon nodded. "Before that, I worked for the banking system." Avon was suddenly very glad that he'd resisted the temptation to embezzle. He was sure he would have got away with it, but irrationally he felt that Blake would see guilt in his eyes.

"Yes, I see. A man would be very safe with you, then." Blake folded the link shut and returned it to the young woman. "Thank you, Dayna."

Dayna nodded, looked at Avon, and for a moment their eyes met. Avon saw an unmistakable warning. Ridiculous, Blake was a grown man, he certainly didn't need someone protecting him from romantic encounters. Not that Avon had romance in mind. Get close to Blake, save his arse, and get his reward in the form of patronage-maybe a government position with a golden pension plan-, that was all he was after. Avon repeated that mantra to himself as Blake chatted with the other people at the head table, and then moved to the podium and gave a rousing after-dinner speech that had even Avon tempted to pledge his time to mentoring a young man. Of course, Avon had a different sort of mentoring in mind. And he really wasn't attracted to callow youths. When he wasn't in the mood for a bit of mindless rough, he liked someone he could talk to before and after the fuck.

Avon watched Blake intently, and was rewarded with an occasional glance. After the speech, the President and his entourage left, while everyone else waited for permission to leave. Avon toyed with his grandfather's wedding band, twisting it 'round and 'round on his finger. He should have said something to Blake during the dinner. Counting on his charm was... Avon looked up at a tap on his shoulder. Dayna stood there, frowning at him. 

She handed Avon a folded slip of paper. She said, quietly, "Present that at the entrance to the Presidential Palace tonight at 2200 hours. You're to dine with the President. Don't be late."

"Is that the way he put it?" Avon asked, amused by her barely-concealed hostility.

"Oh, no. He was very charming and polite. He always is." Dayna turned on her heel, and swept out of the room. Avon imagined her with a whip and a dildo and sighed.

***

The President looked his guest up and down, slowly, and smiled. "So, you don't always wear leather."

"Not always." Avon had opted for the virginal purity of white. It went well with his dark hair and eyes. "Silk," he said, running his hand down the centre of the snowy white wraparound shirt that covered his torso. "And velvet," he added, brushing up the nap on his trousers. 

Blake moved closer. He'd changed from the somber business suit he'd worn to the luncheon, into leather himself- a heavy forest green suede vest over an olive drab linen shirt, with trousers that didn't quite match. Avon found himself thinking that the clashing colors were endearing, a sign of the man's basic innocence. He probably didn't even know the handkerchief code. The president's personal quarters reflected that innocence. The furniture had obviously been chosen by Blake; large, overstuffed chairs, tables bearing scratches and scars, paintings of trees and other wild landscapes hung seemingly at random on the pale blue walls. 

Then Blake got close enough to touch, and slid a large hand up the inside of Avon's leg to cup his balls. _So much for innocence_ , Avon thought as Blake kneaded him until Avon moaned. Blake kissed the side of Avon's throat, sucking hard, and then he stepped back suddenly. Avon nearly fell forward, bereft by the loss of that touch.

Blake smiled. "Dinner first. Neither of us ate before, I wouldn't want us to be weak from hunger." He led the way to a table set for two, but large enough for six. "It's not chicken casserole, I promise." 

***

Avon never remembered later exactly what he'd eaten. Blake was even more charismatic in person than when he was exhorting the populace to grander and finer visions of utopia created through hard work and sacrifice. Listening to Blake, Avon almost believed it was possible to create a society where all were free and equal before an impartial law, and none were abused. Blake drank rich red wine, and laughed and told wonderfully filthy jokes and Avon believed in him so hard it made his heart ache and his throat close up.

And then the President took Avon to bed. There was a plaque at the foot of the bed, saying someone famous once slept there. Avon didn't have time to read it before he was tumbled into bed, stripped, prepared and taken. It was like being in a whirlwind, surrounded by an irresistible power. Avon didn't even want to resist. 

Afterward, Blake held Avon to his chest, and murmured appreciative things in his ear. At first, Avon was pleased, hot and relaxed and very mellow. The President was indeed a big man, rough, but not cruel, just exactly what Avon loved best. But after a few minutes, Avon began to feel that the phrases were just a little too smooth, too well-rehearsed, too...well, too much like a politician's after dinner set speech. Blake could have anyone he wanted, just by lifting one eyebrow. No doubt he had a new toy in his bed every night and forgot their names in the morning. Well, he wouldn't forget Avon.

Pushing up and away, Avon sat up and looked down at Blake. "We need to talk."

Blake frowned. "I talk all day long, Kerr. Let's not spoil the night." He held out his arms. "You can have me next."

Avon was tempted, so very tempted, but he shook his head. "This is serious. I uncovered a plot against your life, today. You need to take precautions."

Blake sat up, sobered. "Really? Tell me."

"Delta 76 hired Pierre Wulfgang Muhammed O'Farrell to plan your assassination."

Blake paled noticeably. He reached out for a robe and threw it on. "Do you have any more details?"

"No. The trail broke before I could get to the heart of it."

Blake nodded. "I'll get security on it, right away." He waved Avon back as he started to get up. "Stay here."

Avon lay in bed for few minutes, and then the cover of one of the pamphlets the 'missionary' carried flashed in his memory, and he recalled the name of the church. A small clue, but something to go on. He got up, naked, and followed Blake out of the bedroom.

"Blake, I just..." Avon stopped. Blake was talking to Dayna. "Ah, excuse me." Avon stepped behind a conveniently placed overstuffed chair. Blake turned to face Avon, with Dayna at his side. Dayna looked angry. Well, and so she should, it was her job to protect Blake. Avon said, "The last man I found was a missionary based in the Church of the Trans..."

"The Transfiguration," Dayna finished. 

"Yes. How did you know?" Avon asked, suddenly wondering how far the plot went; was Blake's own security staff in on it? His heart leaped into his throat when Dayna lifted the muzzle of a vicious looking little gun. Without thinking about it, Avon jumped between Dayna and Blake, pushing Blake out of the way, falling to land protectively on the President.

"No!" Dayna shouted, at the same time Blake made an inarticulate protest, and Avon felt a sharp pain in his arse. He reached back, and pulled a fuzzy-tipped dart out of his backside, staring up at Dayna in befuddlement as his limbs suddenly refused to obey him.

"You didn't need to do that, Dayna, he's harmless," Blake said, as he got out from under Avon with her help, and rose to his feet.

"He certainly is, _now_ ," she retorted. She looked at Avon's naked body. "Well, I can see he's not got any concealed weapons."

Blake looked down at Avon, his face troubled. "I don't believe he meant to harm me. He's just... confused."

Dayna nodded. "I'll say he is. Anyone who's sex-mad enough to try to rape a missionary in a public park!"

Avon's eyes widened in fury, but he couldn't speak.

"He wouldn’t press charges, the trooper said, and neither will I." Blake knelt and stroked Avon's cheek. "Don't worry, Kerr, it will be all right." He rose and told Dayna, "I want a full evaluation done on him." Blake looked sad. "The law still allows the President to arbitrarily sentence people." He shook his head. "I don't know..."

Dayna touched Blake's arm. "You're doing it for his own good, Mr. President. He could hurt himself."

Blake nodded curtly. "See that he has the best of care." Blake walked out of Avon's line of vision, and a few moments later, Avon heard the bedroom door shut.

Dayna looked down at Avon and shook her head. "You are cute. It's a pity you're crazy." 

***

Avon looked around the white-white-white room. White padding on floors, ceiling and walls. White straitjacket over pale, naked skin. Bare white light coming from the ceiling. Bland 'white' music trickling in through the inspection window set in the white padded door. Avon decided that he really didn't look good in this much white. 

It had taken several hours for the drug to wear off, giving Avon time to go from seething fury to cold, reasoned anger. At himself. All right, Blake was an acceptable lay... well...an exceptional one. Still, that was no reason to leap between him and death, was it? Avon considered the matter in detail. Yes, Blake was very good to look at, even better to listen to, and bloody fantastic to touch, but Avon had previously known lovers very nearly his equal in all those aspects, and never felt a qualm about leaving them, or worried about their well-being, much less risked his own life for them. It couldn't be because Blake was President. Avon despised politics, politicians and patriotism. It could scarcely be because Blake sincerely believed in the essential goodness of mankind, as the very idea was absurd.

He had considered the matter from every angle, going around it for hours before, with a cold, sinking feeling in his gut, Avon finally tracked the answer down to its lair. He was hopelessly in love with the big idiot. Avon moaned and bashed his head against the soft, padded wall. If this was Orac's idea of 'benefit', Avon was going to hunt the computer down and reprogram it with a laser probe. 

He sighed. All right, face up to the facts. He had to get out of here and rescue Blake, no matter what it took. He unfocused his eyes and concentrated on the trick he'd learned from a former boyfriend he'd met while arresting him on a pick-pocketing charge (later dropped when the 'victim' admitted Vila had been fondling him, not robbing him.) It hurt, but he managed to dislocate one shoulder and reach down to the strap buckles, and undo the jacket. He waited, with the jacket still draped around him, for the next security check. 

"Hey!" Avon cried out when he saw the close-cropped, dark-haired face of a guard look in. "Can't I have some water?"

The guard hesitated. Avon opened his eyes wide and tried to look harmless. The guard smiled, and Avon flinched. Maybe he should have waited for a different guard.

Keys jingled in the lock, and the guard entered. She was tall, and quite beautiful, in a frightening way. "You're the sex-fiend, aren't you?"

"Well, no, not really." Avon edged away from her, instincts making his skin crawl as she licked her lips and looked down at his crotch. "That was all a misunderstanding."

"What a pity." She smiled again. "If you're a good boy, I'll be nice to you, Kerr. Very nice." She wriggled her blue dress up her hips. She wasn't wearing any undergarments. She pushed him flat on his back, and then straddled his head. "I'm sure you know what to do."

"Yes, I do." Avon pulled his arms out from under him, grabbed her, rolled her off of him and punched her in the mouth, knocking her unconscious. "Ow," he said, sucking on his knuckles. 

Avon stripped the woman, dressed her in the straitjacket and arranged her body in a natural-seeming sleeping curl with her back to the door. With a little difficulty he put on her clothes. He frowned at the sensible flats, but was glad she had large feet. He picked up her keys, including one to her locker, and left the cell. He'd need money, and he didn't dare return to his flat. 

***

"Och, Honey, tha' is _so_ not your style!" the tailor told Avon as he entered the He/She dress shop. 

Avon smiled at his old friend. "I know; it's a loaner. I need something special, Jarriere. Something with class for a gala event. A full job, I want to see if I can pass."

"Eh, if anyone can, you can, dearie." The tailor came around the counter and studied Avon. "Wha's th' event?"

"A Presidential ceremony in the Rose Garden, today at 1500 hours."

"The President? You're going to see the President?" Jarriere giggled. "Oh, you lucky boy! Yes, ye'll have to be dressed fine for that!"

It took several hours before Jarriere was satisfied with Avon's appearance. Avon stood up at last on his stilettos, and paced slowly before the floor-length mirror, smoothing the black satin over his hips and checking that the seams of his hose were straight. "You're a genius, Jarriere," Avon said, fluffing his blonde curls and batting his now baby-blue eyes.

"So I am," Jarriere said with satisfaction. He reached over to adjust Avon's bosom. "If ye' can, gi' the President a kiss from me, would ye?"

Avon playfully tousled Jarriere's curls, feeling a twinge as his fingers reminded him of the feel of Blake's hair, tangled around them. "If I can."

***

"Oh, come on, Vila, for old time's sake." 

Vila looked at Avon suspiciously. "I don't trust you. You're planning something sneaky, you always are."

Avon sighed. "Vila... have you seen vids of Presidential Ceremonies in the Rose Garden?"

Vila nodded reluctantly.

"Have you seen the jewels they wear?"

Vila brightened. "Oh, so that's it! Well, for an amateur, you're not bad, Fingers, but really... you want to pick pockets in the Presidential Palace?" Vila liked the sound of the tongue-twister he'd just invented, so he said it a few more times. "You'll be caught."

"Even if I am, you know I'll never grass on you."

"Mmm... there's that. I know you're too bloody stubborn to talk. Well, all right, but anything you get, you fence through me."

"Done!" Avon carefully shook hands with Vila, trying not to break his false fingernails.

***

Avon looked at his borrowed lady's wrist chron. "13 hundred hours, Vila. Aren't you done yet?" Avon was simultaneously exhausted, and keyed up. This was the longest 24 hours he could remember, but soon... one way or another... it would be over.

"Just now. Here, look at this." Vila handed Avon an ID disk made up with Avon's new face, and new identity. He laughed. "Missionary, is it? Here and I thought you were more adventurous than that."

Avon examined the ID disk, and grinned. "Perfect. The invitation?"

Vila passed over a heavy card-stock paper with gilt-edges. "There you go, Yvonne. Have fun."

"Oh, I shall, Vila." Avon touched up his makeup, and called for a hover-cab.

***

The Presidential Garden was crowded with little old ladies of both genders and all ages. Avon had a bad moment when Dayna looked at him, but her eyes passed over him and went on to examine the rest of the crowd. He looked at his wrist-chron: 14:50. What if the assassin jumped the gun? What if Avon was wrong about the method? His skin crawled at the thought that a bomb might be quietly ticking away in the background. All he had to go on was Orac's prediction, that _he_ was somehow uniquely qualified to save the President. Well, no time for second thoughts. 

Avon continued circulating, nodding and smiling vacantly at people as he scanned the crowd, keeping Blake's broad-shouldered figure always reasonably close, but never close enough... looking for... ah. There! Avon started working his way through the crowd. Time was running out. He began using stilettos on insteps, elbows on ribs.

People were protesting, and the security guards were moving in on him when he finally broke through the crowd to reach Blake. The 'missionary' was smiling a Judas' smile, and leaning forward to kiss Blake, who was laughing.

Avon's gut clenched as he grabbed the missionary's shoulder and whirled the young man aside. "What..." Blake shouted, "Avon, leave him alone!" and strode forward.

"No, Blake!" Avon held the missionary desperately, the chill of the body telling him his instincts had been right. He held an android, programmed to look human. He saw Dayna's arm coming up, no doubt with dart gun again. _No time!_ "Damn you, Blake!" Avon shouted and kissed the android.

Time seemed to stand still. Avon's heart clenched, and he collapsed, still holding the android. Dimly he heard shouts, and Blake's voice above all.

"Dayna! Did you have to!"

"I didn't, Blake..." Dayna showed Blake the unfired gun and moved to stand over the two struggling figures.

Avon rolled his eyes, trying desperately to make Dayna understand. Her eyes widened, and she pulled Blake back. "Get the President inside!" she snapped, and a dark-clad group of security men hauled the protesting Blake to safety. Avon smiled, and stopped fighting.

***

Avon looked around his hospital room with satisfaction. He didn't care about the floral displays, Get Well cards, or even the boxes of expensive chocolates. The important thing was beside him. The President sat at his bedside, and squeezed his hand. "You scared me half to death, Kerr."

Avon smiled. "But only half."

Blake leaned over to kiss Avon on lips carefully scrubbed of poison. "You could have died if you hadn't put on your lip-gloss so heavily."

Avon rolled his eyes. "That _was_ the point, Roj." 

Blake laughed and kissed Avon again. "I love you."

"Yes, well, you love everyone."

Blake shook his head, and took a small velvet box from his pocket. "I don't ask everyone to become the First Gentleman." He knelt beside the bed, and slipped the gold ring onto Avon's finger. "Say yes."

Avon looked deeply into Blake's eyes as his heart swelled with joy. "I could never refuse the President anything."

Blake pulled Avon into his arms, and kissed him so deeply alarm bells rang on the medical monitors.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Rough time-line of events:
> 
> 1530 first day, Avon is kicked out of the Fed building.  
> 1645 hours Avon follows O'Farrell.  
> 1750 hours Jarvik lets Avon go.  
> 2000 hours dinner at the YMCA.  
> 2200 hours dinner at the Presidential Palace.  
> approximately 2300 finishes dinner  
> approximately 2400 warns Blake.  
> approximately 0300 escapes from padded cell.  
> approximately 0700 goes to He/She shop.  
> approximately 1000 finishes with the costuming.  
> approximately 1300 gets new ID and ticket to event.  
> 1500 hours, the next day, is the assassination attempt.


End file.
